


(She Was) Love and Life and the Flash of a Knife

by the_ragnarok



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Menstruation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-06
Updated: 2011-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-18 09:27:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur's something to admire, truly. Between her build, the suits she wears (cut for slender men, the lot of them), the way she slicks her hair back and going by her last name, she creates a complete, streamlined, and utterly wrong impression of who and what she is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(She Was) Love and Life and the Flash of a Knife

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/cherrybina/profile)[**cherrybina**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/cherrybina/) 's kink fest, for a prompt requesting always-a-girl!Arthur and menstruation sex.
> 
> Not beta'd - if you see a mistake please feel free to point out in comments, but be gentle. My ego is a fragile flower. :)

  
Eames reaches to shake Cobb's hand with a pleasant smile. He does his best to keep it from widening into a filthy grin when he sees Arthur, and by Arthur's expression succeeds only moderately. Still, Eames doesn't think he should be faulted for it. He hasn't seen her in ages.

She gives him a tight smile and walks to her desk, but her hand lingered in his for just a moment before she let go. Eames tamps down his smile and sits to work, only sliding the occasional glance her way.

Arthur's something to admire, truly. Between her build, the suits she wears (cut for slender men, the lot of them), the way she slicks her hair back and going by her last name, she creates a complete, streamlined, and utterly wrong impression of who and what she is.

When Cobb leaves to get lunch, Eames seizes his chance. He walks to her. Slowly, within her line of sight – he's made the mistake of startling her once, and that was quite enough. He perches on the very edge of her desk, keeping well out of her personal space. He's made that mistake before, too.

"Not tonight, Eames," Arthur says. At least she graces him with a short look before resuming full concentration on her work.

There's a fine line between persuasion and pestering, and Eames is resolved not to pass it. But surely a little clarification wouldn't hurt. "If it's a workload problem," which is the likeliest explanation, "I could perhaps be of assistance?"

Her smile is tiny but it's there, and Eames feels a ridiculous burst of pride that she'd even accept his help. Nothing but the best for Arthur, not in anything. "It's fine," she says. "I have it under control." Not defensive in the least. Good. The last thing Eames wants to do is put her on her guard. Arthur's guard is often employed and severely armed, and Eames would rather see it put to rest around him.

"What, then?" He allows himself the faintest note of pleading. "Are you tired of me already, darling?"

She snorts. "Fuck off, Eames." It's good-natured, though. She even covers his hand briefly with hers.

Eames raises his hands. "Then I'll bother you no longer," he says, sighing. "I shall only pine away, sad and forgotten." He's nearly tempted to press a hand to his forehead. Nearly.

The snort is turning into outright smothered laughter, and Eames bites down on a smile. "Seriously, Eames," Arthur says. "Not tonight, okay? Ask me again in a couple of days." Her eyes are warm, resting on him. She might not even retreat if he tried to kiss her.

Or, no, of course she would. Never at work, never where anybody from the business can see them. Arthur's drawn her limits, and Eames can't very well blame her. The dreamsharing world has an image of the way a dreamer woman should look, and while it's surely very stylish and dramatic – fit Mal to a T, bless her memory – Arthur would suffocate, trapped in that. Easier for her to wear flat men's shoes and no makeup, keep her hair short and her manner shorter.

And yet. "What will happen in a couple of days, if I may ask?" Eames moves away slightly. He's nearly in dangerous territory now.

Then – is it his imagination? No, no, apparently his eyes did not deceive him; Arthur's neck just flushed pink. Eames stares at it, helplessly entranced. "Don't ask," Arthur says.

He thought that perhaps she had another – _friend_ , for lack of a more fitting word for their particular arrangement – in town, or other business to attend to. But he can't imagine either sex or work making Arthur blush. "Arthur, I'm entirely at sea," he says. "What can you possibly mean?"

"I'm menstruating," Arthur says. Something crashes in the corridor just outside. Ah, Cobb must be back early.

True enough, Cobb walks in moments later, nervously eying Arthur. Arthur raises calm eyes to him, waits a moment, then goes back to her work when Cobb does nothing but turn deeper and deeper shades of red.

In the privacy of his work station, Eames grins.

~~

It's the easiest thing, after Cobb leaves in the evening, to linger at his desk, poking away at odds and ends.

"Eames," Arthur says from her desk, "if you don't have anything to do, go home. We're not paying you to play solitaire."

Eames (who is playing Freecell, thank you very much) closes the window and turns to her. "Perhaps I'm waiting."

She blinks, uncomprehending, then glares at him in exasperation. "Do you need to get your hearing checked?"

"All right," Eames says, "suppose you're not up to – " He carefully weighs his words, trying to find one that is neither too crass nor too flowery.

"Fucking's out of the question," Arthur says, with that sharpness she gets when somebody's not listening to her.

"'Course not, if you're uninterested," Eames says. He's about to say something about the pleasure of her company when she rolls her eyes, like she never does when others can see. Eames can't help but be charmed.

"Did I say I was uninterested?" Arthur says. Eames has to pick and choose his words around her, partly because of her temper, but mostly out of respect to how carefully she uses hers. "I said it's out of the question. _Can't_ , Eames. You can stop showing me your bruised ego now."

Eames could say a few choice words on the subject of his ego, but. "Can't?" he says with a raised eyebrow, and regrets it almost immediately. He's hardly going to press her if she's in pain. He's not _that_ hard-up for company.

But she just looks at him, disbelieving. "Are you seriously – " she cuts herself off, inhaling through her teeth, whistle-like. "Eames, that's _filthy_."

 _Oh_. Oh, _now_ they're talking.

"I didn't realize," Eames says, as smoothly as he can, "that filthy was a problem for you."

Arthur can curse like a sailor and stitch wounds as neatly as any nurse Eames has ever met. He's seen her covered in gore too many times to count. She'll dive into dumpsters without compunction or even care for her suits if there's some information to be found there. She's neat, right up until the situation calls for a mess. This is one of Eames' favorite things about her.

Her gaze is cool and unimpressed. Eames would be wounded if he didn't know this expression. This is a skepticism that wants to be convinced, proven wrong. "Why would you want that?" she says.

Eames shrugs. "You're here," he says, "I'm here, a nice soft bed can be arranged and nobody's shooting at us. Whyever not?"

She looks him up and down, frankly assessing. It's all Eames can do not to preen under her gaze, to open his thighs subtly, to puff his chest and square his shoulders.

Then the right corner of her mouths tilts upwards, and oh, the first flush of victory is _delightful._

"Which hotel are you staying at?" Arthur asks, and when Eames takes the liberty of taking her hand to scribble the address on her palm she doesn't pull away.

~~

He's nearly inside the door when his phone buzzes. _Change of plans_ , her text says, followed by her hotel address and room number.

Eames packs a bag before going, puts condoms and a change of clothes and, on a whim, a dildo and harness. He doesn't know that she'll want to do him today, but a man can live in hope.

When she opens the door, Eames finds his breath arrested. She's just out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, wet hair dripping over her shoulders.

"Oh, look at you," Eames says, appreciative. She rolls her eyes and leans on the wall, blatantly giving him a once-over.

"Take off your shirt," she says. Eames hurries to comply, toeing off his shoes while he's at it. He has his hands on his belt when she comes to him, runs her hands up his arms, gripping at his shoulders.

"Right," he says, and pulls her towel off. He lets it drop on the floor and there it is, he has Arthur in his arms, naked and and still slightly wet, and he seriously couldn't be happier than he is right now.

She pins him against the wall and kisses him. For a long moment all he does is kiss her back, his hands rubbing up and down her sides, feeling the strength of her, the contradiction of hard muscle and soft skin, the sharpness of her teeth as she nips his lower lip.

He pushes her to the bed, walking her backwards, his hands around her waist. He sits her down on the bed and goes to his knees, resting his cheek against the inside of her thigh.

Arthur looks incredulous. "Seriously?"

Eames briefly considers being insulted. "Did you think I wouldn't?"

She opens her mouth, then narrows her eyes. "You'd do anything."

True enough. "Unless you have any objections," Eames says, "shall I go on?"

The sound she makes is almost a sob, and it goes straight to Eames' cock. He rubs his face against her leg, stubble scraping. It'll redden later, and Eames imagines she'll look in the mirror and touch her skin and think of him.

When she opens her legs again, there's a red mark right up near her pussy. Eames puts his mouth to it, just because he can, just because she'll let him. She laughs, a choked little sound, and hitches her legs up.

"Fuck, Eames," she says. "Fuck, I want..."

"What?" He comes closer, kisses at the very bottom of her stomach. "Tell me what you want, darling."

"Fuck," she says, and this time it's not an invective, it's an order.

Eames pushes her down on the bed and crawls on top of her to kiss her soundly, enjoying the feeling of her legs wrapping around him. He sucks a bruise into her collarbone, bites gently at her jaw.

Then he kneels, moving away from her. She growls a little when he does, probably without even noticing it. Eames reaches to her, cups his hand around the barely-there swell of her breast.

"Don't you worry," he says, flicking his thumb across her nipple until she's arching her back and clamping her legs around him. "I'll see you through."

"Shut up." Her eyes are already tightly closed, which bodes well. Eames bends down to bite her nipple, which makes her gasp, so he does it again.

Eames absolutely loves Arthur's breasts, how lovely they are to nuzzle, how fucking responsive Arthur is to everything he does. He pinches her other nipple, sucking hard on the one in his mouth, and she pants out broken obscenities, rubbing against him, wordlessly begging for more.

This leaves him with one free hand, so he hoists her leg up over his shoulder – it just folds and stays there, he can't help but marvel at her flexibility – and pushes two fingers into her. She's sopping wet, her accustomed slickness combining with the flow of blood, and there's no resistance whatsoever when Eames slides them in.

At this, she throws back her head and moans outright, and Eames doesn't even try to hide his smug grin. Coaxing sounds out of Arthur is a skill he'd worked at long and hard, and it's immensely gratifying to reap the benefits.

Eames honestly doesn't know what he wants to do now. He wants to go down on her, press her clit between two fingers and lap at it until she sobs, finger her until she fucks herself on him without a trace of self-consciousness. He wants to bite and kiss and suck at her breasts, see her nipples go hard and red and abused, see her asking for more still. He wants to fuck her so badly he thinks he may burst soon if he doesn't. He wants it all, right now, and he can't fucking decide what to do.

So he keeps where he is, pushing his fingers into her in short hard strokes, biting her breasts until they're covered with his teethmarks, sucking irregular hickeys into her neck and shoulders, until she shoves him away, hard.

"Take your fucking pants off," she says, past anything like decorum. "I want your cock, Eames. Right the fuck now." Eames doesn't think he ever obeyed an order quite so fast.

"I should," he says, shaking his head to clear it. "Condoms, in my bag – "

"Fuck that," she all but snarls. "Get your ass here."

Then she pushes him down on his back and comes to straddle him, rubbing herself on his cock without letting it actually enter her. It's a maddening tease, her all wet and slick over him, just almost enough pressure for Eames to feel properly. In the end he growls and lifts her, bodily, working himself into her with quick sharp thrusts that he doesn't really have proper leverage for. His back will be feeling it, in the morning, but for now it's worth it. Her arse in his hands, her cunt so hot and sweet around him that Eames can't even wait for her to fuck herself on him, he has to arch up and fuck her from below.

Then she smiles at him, the knife-edge smile he loves so well, and grinds down. Eames grabs her hand and fucking shouts at that, loud with joy, and they rut against each other hard and fast until he feels her clenching around him and that's it, no more, he can't –

He opens his eyes when she's climbing off him, a little clumsy in the wake of pleasure.

"It looks like you just gutted someone with your dick," Arthur says. She doesn't sound at all dismayed by this. Eames winces.

He's not displeased, however, when she trails her fingers up the shaft of his cock, touching them to her mouth, tongue darting to taste the blood. At his expression she says, "What? It's all mine. There's nothing in there I don't have anyway."

Of course Eames can't reasonably object, but still. "You were entirely opposed to this not three hours ago," he says, slightly petulant.

She shrugs, easy. Eames is momentarily distracted by what that movement does to her breasts. "I didn't have a problem with it," she says, matter-of-fact.

Right. She wouldn't, not practical Arthur. But people have reactions to that sort of thing, Eames has run into them more than once himself.

But he can't be thinking of that, not right now, not with Arthur still eying his cock like she wants it in her. "I could," he says, before he can stop himself, "perhaps get it up again? Given half an hour or so."

"Fuck half an hour," she says, and she look – _hungry_. Oh, _fuck_. Fuck half an hour indeed.

At times, Eames reflects that there is truly no justice in life. There he is, a known crook, not a nice person at all. How is it possible that in any just world he could deserve this – the sweet smooth lines of Arthur's form, curled up on his bed, naked and debauched and asking for more. Eames isn't certain anyone would be good enough to deserve it.

Good thing Eames has no compunctions about taking things he has no right to, then.

Arthur's looking at his fingers, almost transfixed. Eames hesitates, but when he lifts them to her mouth she takes them in, thin lips pursed, and Eames has no choice but to kiss her, licking at the corner of her mouth and his own fingers. Eames is well-used to the taste of blood in his mouth.

Once his fingers are clean, Arthur's looking at them with almost comical indecision, and Eames has a flash of inspiration.

He takes the toy he brought out of his bag and presents it to her. "Hmm?"

She smiles, slow joy spreading over her until she's beautiful with it, incandescent. "Yeah." She lies down, legs open.

Eames sits on the bed besides her, putting the toy down for a moment. He puts his hands on her thighs to spread them, until he can see her blood and his come dripping down on the sheet, commingled. He bends, then, pushing his tongue into her, nudging her clit with his nose. She's so open for him, hips pushing up to meet his face, her stomach quivering.

He brings her off like that, the muscles in her legs clenching under his hands and her breaths growing steadily harsher before she shakes and gasps and lets go. He wipes his face and his hand clean on the bedsheet, then goes to glove up the toy. He sits beside her, running greedy fingers over her stomach, the underside of her breasts.

It goes into her easily, even though it's not exactly small. Eames waits until it's all the way inside before turning on the vibration.

"Fuck." Arthur sounds drunk, ecstatic, the corners of her mouth pulling up, lips parted. "Oh, fuck, Eames, that's _good_."

He kisses her then, all over, her collarbone and her elegant wrists and the soft skin under her ear. She doesn't direct him or pull at him, just humps the air until he gets a hand on the toy and fucks her with it, slow and deep, controlled.

It takes her a long time to come, but Eames is in no rush. He feels himself getting ready for another round, a steady warmth pooling low in his stomach, but he's reluctant to pull the toy out when it's obvious Arthur's having such a good time.

He entertains some brief fanstasies of pushing inside her right along the toy, but that's unlikely to work without far more effort than he's willing to expend right now. Or maybe her tight little arse, _oh_ , now there's a thought to drive a man mad, a thought to keep him up at night in the best sort of way. But not today, he doesn't think, and again: effort. Eames just wants to come into her, to come _in_ her again. He could definitely see himself getting used to that.

So he fucks her until she comes, slow but intense, and she lies open-legged and draws him to lie on top of her.

"Come on," she says, wrapping her arms and legs around him, straining up to be kissed. Eames does, kisses her deep and wet, thrusting into her faster than he means to, coming harder than he'd expected.

She pushes him away only bare moments after he comes. "Go take a shower."

Well, as it happens, Eames isn't opposed to the idea himself. He goes, emerging clean and a little wet behind the ears. She's already curled up in the blankets when he does, a faint sound that she swears isn't a snore resonating in the room.

"Good night, darling," Eames says, with a soft fondness he works hard to suppress when she can actually hear him, and turns off the light as he leaves.


End file.
